


Winter Winds

by thechosennerf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autism, Autism Spectrum, Christmas, Gen, gen - Freeform, possibly, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:39:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechosennerf/pseuds/thechosennerf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John attempts to persuade Sherlock to go Christmas shopping, despite warnings from Mycroft. Sherlock suffers sensory overload, and things go badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Winds

‘If you continue in your attempts to persuade me to accompany you for much longer, John, I’m afraid I may be forced to defenestrate you.’

John sighed and pushed himself up from the overstuffed armchair, reaching for his patched jacket with a vague glare in the direction of the couch-inhabiting detective. In the absence of a case, Sherlock had been lounging around, pyjama clad and brooding for the best part of a week, and it was starting to become tiresome, especially since Sherlock seemed set on emphatically denying John’s every suggestion as to how he might amuse himself.

‘I do know what that means, you know,’ John muttered, and Sherlock merely rolled his eyes. ‘You made me recite it about forty times during the case with the dog suicides in February.’

Sherlock frowned and reassumed his prone position on the couch, long, spindly fingers drumming incessant rhythms on the upholstery.

‘Hmm. It rather appears you weren’t taking a blind bit of notice when I did. Suicide involving a window is referred to as self or auto defenestration. Do try to keep up.’

John grabbed his keys and mobile from the coffee table and shot an exasperated look in Sherlock’s direction. ‘That’s not the point, Sherlock. Look. I’m only going to be out for a few hours – it’s just Sarah and Mrs Hudson I’ve left to buy for, but you’ve not got anything for anyone – not even your brother or your mum. Anyway, I’d have thought you’d have enjoyed using your…’

He searched for a word that wouldn’t belittle or over-exaggerate what Sherlock did, before remembering that it hardly mattered how he summed things up – the sleuth was likely to find fault with his grammar or pronunciation anyway.

‘…your deductive reasoning to work out what sort of thing they’d appreciate. Plus, I’ll be getting wrapping paper. You like wrapping paper.’

Sherlock rolled over languidly and huffed out a breath. ‘Just because I recognise how the adhesive properties of associated coloured paper can be potentially useful when observed on the sleeves of criminals does not mean I have an unusual affinity for said gift-wrap.’

Squeezing his eyes together briefly in exasperation, John shrugged on the jacket and moved towards the door. It wasn’t that he had a problem with Sherlock refusing to leave the flat – the snow hadn’t let up for several days, blanketing the city in a layer of bright ice that had obviously influenced the most ‘interesting’ of the criminally inclined to keep their activities for a more productive part of the year. John was sure that in Sherlock’s opinion there wasn’t a reason to leave the flat without a puzzle to solve, but it didn’t make the prospect of coming back to a potentially half-destroyed flat any more enticing. At least if Sherlock could be persuaded to leave the flat, he could be fairly certain of a reduced risk of intestines defrosting in the sink when they returned from shopping.

‘At the risk of landing on my arse in the snow from this high up, you sure you’re not coming? I’m not putting both of our names on the tags again. You saw how Lestrade sniggered at his birthday party.’

From the answering grunt, John assumed that would be a definite ‘no’. He glanced out of the window briefly, inwardly cursing at how much the snow fall had increased in the short amount of time he’d wasted verbally prodding his flatmate to want to do something productive, and gestured to the door.

‘I’ll just…be going then,’ he muttered, and Sherlock gave him a final dark look before turning his back and tucking the blue dressing gown around himself.  
John couldn’t help but be vaguely pissed off at having failed in his attempts – if anything, Sherlock’s brusqueness usually decreased queue waiting times by a considerable amount. Sherlock was, and always would be impossible, especially where shopping was concerned. John forced himself to put the idea of Sherlock ever re-considering the importance of such a mundane task out of his mind as he headed out into the recoated drifts.

***

He’d stopped for a bite to eat and a quick cup of tea in a tiny, slightly grubby café in a side street not far from the shopping centre when his phone trilled in his pocket, announcing the arrival of a text message.

From: M. Holmes

Content: Under no circumstances should my brother be persuaded, bribed or cajoled into going Christmas shopping.

John frowned at the message, thumbing up a new text to send a reply. He’d still not gotten over the slightly unsettling feeling of being constantly watched by Mycroft’s (apparently ever expanding) army of minions and associated CCTV cameras. The fact that Mycroft apparently could apparently also listen into conversations between him and Sherlock was new, however. It gave an entirely new dimension to the term ‘Big Brother is Watching You’, and left him with a vaguely paranoid feeling that he didn’t enjoy at all.

From: John Watson

Content: Any particular reason why? Or is he just a stubborn git and pisses a lot of people off? Already prepared for that. I was planning on pacifying him with boiled sweets. It’s worked rather well at crime scenes. You should try it.

He was a little confused by Mycroft’s message – something as harmless as Christmas shopping seemed unimportant and a rather trivial thing to receive a text about, especially from someone who was apparently usually involved in trying to stop small countries from warring with each other. He was especially surprised when another came beeping back at him almost as soon as he’d sent the text.

From: M. Holmes

Content: The tip is duly noted. However, it would be appreciated if you took your attempts no further. Enjoy the festive season, John.

Finishing the last dregs of his cup of tea, he mulled over what Mycroft had made expressly clear, and also the fact that he was starting to sympathise with Sherlock’s view of the man as a meddling git. John blew on his fingers to warm them, Mrs Hudson’s present side-lined in his mind as stepped out of the café into the slushy remains of the snow. He jogged a little to catch up with a packed bus that would drop him off nearer the flat, stuffing the phone back in his pocket, pondering whether showing Sherlock the text would be enough to spur him into a spontaneous fit of Christmas cheer. Unlikely, he thought, fishing in his wallet for change to pay for the ticket. He shook his head at the thought and dropped down into a seat near the back. Sherlock was often in the habit of doing precisely what Mycroft had told him to avoid doing – maybe this was some weird attempt at misdirected reverse psychology? He frowned, considering it, and stared blankly out of the window as the bus wound its way through snowy streets. By the time he’d been dropped off a few streets away from the flat, he’d come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t try – however, he would mention the text to Sherlock and see if it provoked any response. He could only hope. There were only so many excuses he could make to Mrs Hudson for the strange stains he kept finding on the carpet and walls when Sherlock was left by himself in the flat for too long.

***

It was several days later – the snow had calmed a little, but the side roads were still grey and slushy – when Sherlock borrowed his phone and let out a derisive snort when he found the text from Mycroft.

John grinned. ‘Thought that might amuse you a bit. I don’t know what he’s getting at – maybe he thinks I’ll lose you in the crowds because you’ve got yourself distracted by a window display and they’ll have to call me over the tannoy to come and get you.’

The detective frowned at that, tossing the phone back to John. ‘I rather think he’s more concerned with me taking the opportunity to practise my pick-pocketing skills.’

John gave him a look, and Sherlock continued, raising a hand, ‘I always give the items back – I’m not a petty criminal, John - but it’s a valuable opportunity, given the number of expensive items the average person is taken to carrying towards the end of December. I could teach you, if you’d like,’ he finished with an upwards quirk of the lips, looking rather pleased with the idea.

Shaking his head, John picked a few suspiciously mouldy teacups from the coffee table and moved through to the kitchen to deposit them in the (thankfully intestine-free) sink before returning to flop gracelessly with a grateful sigh into his customary spot in the armchair by the fireplace.

‘I’d rather you didn’t. There are some things I’d prefer to not have to think about like that. Everything you do doesn’t have to relate back to a grisly murder, y’know, Sherlock.’

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look, folding the newspaper he’d been flicking through and tossing it over his shoulder to land with a thump in the corner of the room. John resisted the urge to immediately go and pick it up, shooting an irritated glance at the sleuth for his apparent utter contempt for the idea of keeping the place even remotely tidy.

‘I’d be half as useful at my occupation if I wasn’t constantly contemplating ways to improve,’ he said with a huff, pushing himself upwards and stretching, catlike, arms above his head.

He accepted that with a distracted noise of affirmation, mentally searching through items that Sherlock wouldn’t immediately dismiss as superfluous or idiotic that could be purchased before Christmas on the off chance that his flatmate didn’t refuse to participate in the gift-giving ritual after all.

‘Anyway,’ Sherlock continued, blue eyes scanning the room quickly for the shoe he’d deposited after kicking it off earlier in the week at the end of their last case. ‘If you absolutely insist that I accompany you on your next pointless, frivolous outing, I suppose in light of my brother’s apparent determination that I not go, I may allow myself to be…persuaded.’

Startled by that, John offered Sherlock a lopsided smirk and nodded. ‘You’re carrying the bags, mind.’

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste.

‘I’m not sure I’m so interested in the prospect anymore.’

John rolled his eyes, and made a grab for the abandoned newspaper.

‘Just so long as you don’t insist on trying to deduce the identity of the poor bloke playing Santa for the kids, you can carry what you bloody well want. I’ll even let you get something hideously embarrassing for Anderson, if you’re actually set on the idea of doing this. Just no more exercise related items for Mycroft.’

Sherlock let out a small bark of laughter, striding from the room in the direction of the kitchen and his abandoned microscope.

‘I only did that the once,’ he called from the kitchen, ‘and his assistant assures me he looked positively fetching in those leg warmers.’

***

A further three days passed before John was able to drag Sherlock from his experiments and out into the blustery street. Sherlock insisted on getting a cab – again – and when they finally climbed out near to a high-street, the doctor noted that the man was oddly silent, his eyes scanning through the heavy crowds with a look that could only be described as vague intimidation. He grinned a little – the prospect of pushing through the milling masses and grabbing something appropriate wasn’t exactly his favourite thing in the world either, but it was part of the season as much as the decorations and promise of drunkenness and over eating were – entirely unavoidable.

‘I’ll meet you back here at four o’clock, then? We can grab something to eat before everywhere closes and I’ll veto anything too…explosive so you can save yourself the arguments later in the week.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, mouth twisting in a frown. ‘I wasn’t aware we’d be doing this separately,’ he muttered, blue eyes distant as he observed a potential shoplifter entering Boots in the distance.

John smirked. ‘I can’t get anything for you if you’re standing there watching me. Takes all the fun out of it. Humour me?’

The sleuth ignored him – John thought the grumpy huff he emitted didn’t really count as an answer – and headed off in the opposite direction without another word, purposefully walking at the roadside to avoid the crowds. John frowned a little – his success seemed a little more hollow now Sherlock had determined he would spend the whole time sulking, but put the thought out of his mind as he ducked his way through the heaving mass of vaguely irritated shoppers to find something the world’s only consulting detective might appreciate for Christmas.

***

He was starting to tire around two o’clock – and still hadn’t managed to find anything even close to what Mycroft or Sherlock would deem useful – when his mobile began beeping in his pocket. He suspected Sherlock had grown bored of the task already, or else had a case and was determined to abandon John in order to pursue it. He sat down heavily on a bench, lowering the bags to the ground with a little sigh, head thrumming with the tinny tones of the over played Christmas music that he’d heard piped into nearly every shop, and glanced at his phone, unsurprised when the man’s number flashed on the screen.

Come to think of it – why wasn’t Sherlock texting? It was Sherlock’s number, though, and that fact alone left him feeling vaguely unsettled as he answered the call.

‘Hello?’

It wasn’t Sherlock’s voice at the other end of the phone, and that increased the slight sense of worry he’d experienced to something real and vaguely stomach clenching.

‘Is that John Watson?’

He ran a mental check on the voice – nobody he recognised, female, mid-twenties, probably, slight Liverpool accent – before deciding it was nobody he knew and forcing himself to reply in the affirmative, already scooping up the bags into his other hand, stuffing a bottle of wine into a carrier with a box of chocolates so he could carry the three bags in one hand.

‘I’m assistant manager of Selfridges. We’ve got a friend of yours here. Found him in a staff only area. He’d managed to get locked in a cupboard. We’re not planning on pressing charges, but…’

John cut her off with a sigh, and an apology as he headed off in what he hoped was the general direction of the department store.

‘I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m sorry; he’s a bit…well. You probably know by now. I’ll pay for any damage he’s caused…’

To her credit, the manager seemed less annoyed than he’d expected – quite friendly, actually, and he wondered idly if he’d be in with a chance there, before focusing entirely on how much he planned to throttle Sherlock as he pushed his way through the packed pavements and made his way there.

He was unprepared for what he found when he got there, and his anger dissipated almost immediately when he took in how bad Sherlock actually looked. The manager was hovering nervously nearby, and Sherlock was slumped in a display model sofa, fingers gripping the leather armrest with a fierce grip, knuckles whitened with the effort and eyes pressed closed. He looked…almost pained, and John’s first thought was to check his vitals to make sure he wasn’t in any immediate danger before slipping down beside him and resting a gentle hand on his shoulder.

‘Sherlock? You alright? What’s happened?’

The sleuth lifted his head and looked in the general direction of his voice, and his expression was one of relief, despite the glassiness around his gaze.  
‘John? Oh. I apologize…I didn’t ask them to call you. One of them must have taken my mobile…’

John frowned at that, and the slightly dazed tone to Sherlock’s voice, before tightening his grip on the man’s shoulder.

‘Did you hit your head?’ he asked, reaching out to turn Sherlock’s face to check for contusions and to pat his own pockets for the penlight he habitually carried. Sherlock flinched away from his fingers, shuddering a little, and John drew back, more than a little worried.

The man sucked in a breath, and frowning, muttered, ‘I was…too many people with ridiculous Christmas outfits and men buying gifts for their illicit lovers and children howling for the latest television spinoff action figure and elderly couples wondering how many of their friends they can afford to send gifts to, based upon their fixed income, and the music – every shop, the same songs, and the lighting displays and…’

Sherlock’s voice was thin, and low, and he continued to mutter insensibly about the sheer loudness of it all for several minutes before John realised the man was breathing a little hard and managed to quiet him, inwardly kicking himself. Mycroft had been sensible to warn him. No wonder the man had gotten himself overwhelmed, what with his mind working overtime to process the sheer amount of information everywhere, leaping out from every corner of his vision and raining down upon him in a million different sounds and sights. To the average person, it was uncomfortable – to Sherlock, it must have been unbearable.

He nodded to the still-hovering manageress, taking back Sherlock’s mobile and tucking it into his pocket, before turning back to his friend, grimacing a little. He remembered how bad something simple like going shopping had been when he’d first come back from Afghanistan – every tiny noise like a splinter in his senses, nerves jolting with fear and memories.

‘Sorry I forced you to come with me. It’s a bit…yeah. I was stupid to…I get it, Sherlock,’ he said, and the detective gave him the barest hint of a smile, some of the tension fading from his features. John returned the expression with a bolder grin of his own, pleased that Sherlock seemed less…entirely distant and confused, and nodded.

‘It’s okay, I think I was about done anyway. We’ll get a taxi, alright?’

The man mumbled his agreement, a little numbly, and fidgeted with the cuffs of his shirt under his coat sleeves, face still a little pale, expression grim. Something about the expression on Sherlock’s face did nothing for the sensation of guilt gripping him.

John turned to the manageress, not loosening his grip on Sherlock’s shoulder in case the man decided to bolt – and asked her, politely if there was any way they could use the back exit. Obviously pleased that the man was no longer her responsibility, she agreed. John kept his hand around Sherlock’s wrist and luckily, the sleuth seemed to be in no mood to protest about John leading him through the (still-crowded) store and out through the loading bay into the frozen back alley.

Sherlock’s movements were a little stiff, and he moved with none of the graceful ease John had long since learned to associate with him. He shot John a wary glance as they moved over the icy cobbles, and John pulled out his phone to call for a taxi – the main road was a half-mile in the opposite direction and still probably bustling with shoppers– when a nondescript black car pulled up at the end of the alleyway. John had never been more pleased for Mycroft’s interference, and he bundled Sherlock into the back, stomach churning unhappily at the thought of having caused this despite advance – if vague – warnings from Mycroft. The car was empty, thankfully – no Anthea or Julie or Hannah or whatever she was calling herself these days – and the driver seemed to know without instructions the shortest and most direct route back to the flat. The silence in the back of the car was slightly oppressive, but John had grown used to that in the past and certainly didn’t object to Sherlock wanting to soothe himself with quiet now. He winced slightly when Sherlock jolted a little at the sound of a text message – such a tiny, insignificant noise would never have normally bothered him, but Sherlock was still far from calm, John recognised with an unhappy sigh, wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and tugging him a little closer.

From: M. Holmes

Content: I do trust that you’ll give my warnings more consideration next time, John.

He frowned at the message content. Yes, Mycroft had been right, but there was no need for him to sound so self-assured about it. He held the phone up for Sherlock to glance at. Sherlock gave a tiny snort and turned his head away to gaze through the glass, flickering city lights breaking through the dimness of the slightly grimy car window to cast shadows on his pale face.

‘I’m definitely ordering a treadmill for him. Smug bastard,’ he muttered against John’s shoulder. John grinned.

‘You have my permission. Just – we’ll do the shopping online next time, alright?’

Sherlock gave him a lazy, half-arsed smirk, and shook his head, not shifting from his position with his head pillowed against John’s arm.

‘You’ll do the shopping online next time. I want absolutely nothing to do with the whole dull, tiresome process,’ he mumbled, voice low and heavy with what sounded like tiredness.

‘Alright, then. But you’ll have to deal with everyone being insufferable and thinking we’re a couple when I sign both our names on the tags, again.’

Sherlock huffed, sliding a little closer. ‘I’m getting used to it,’ he grumbled softly. ‘Besides, there are things in the world that are much worse than that assumption,’ he finished, warm breath ghosting against the cool flesh of John’s neck.

John smiled softly at that, keeping his arm firmly around Sherlock’s shoulders as the car wound its way through the snow-muffled, darkened streets, thinking that, as usual, Sherlock was probably right.


End file.
